


it's getting bluer (and you can't keep faking)

by sarcangel



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Play, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: For a second, Niall can’t move, pinned in place by Bressie’s casual words. Get you sorted could mean so many things, things he wants, and his brain almost explodes.
Relationships: Niall Breslin/Niall Horan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 76





	it's getting bluer (and you can't keep faking)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notverypunkofme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/gifts).

> for stylingmrstyles, for the 1d secret santa thing. this is definitely the one and only pwp thing that i can lay claim to having written (thank god for all of us asdfaalfjkae), and it's entirely un-beta'd, and i may come back to fix it a little or i might not. in any case, you seem lovely and i apologize that this is a complete disaster. i have a part two in mind but didn't want to run out of time, so here you go. <3

There are different kinds of bruises, is the thing. The kind Niall can press on, smeared over his hip, the soft indent of his throat, and remember how they got there; the kind he can push against until he’s shivery from fresh pain and memory.

It’s Friday night and he’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, getting ready to go out. The vanity lights are hot on the surface of his skin, washing the color out of everything - and it doesn’t have to mean anything, if he gets distracted, staring at the mark at the base of his neck, gone mottled yellow in the week since it was given, easy to cover up. He lets his fingers brush against it — and if his eyes get dark when he thinks about getting another one, the way Bressie shakes and sucks and loses control for a few seconds, mouth scorching deep against Niall’s skin, just enough to leave an imprint— it doesn’t have to mean anything. If he likes it more than he should, more than he says; if he rations the bruises like food, something to survive on.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, startling him. He shakes himself and finishes buttoning his shirt, finally - the boys’ll have a fit if he’s not ready soon. To think of it, he’s surprised he hasn’t heard from them already, the way he’s been mooning in the WC like a kid with a crush.

And wouldn’t you know it, but Willie shows up right then, as if Niall thinking about him has summoned him into being. “What are you still doing in here?” he asks, poking his head through the doorway. “You look fine, quit foostering.”

“Eh, fuck off.” Niall makes a show of it, painstakingly adjusting a strand of hair in the mirror. “You don’t understand a model’s life.”

Willie pushes him into the vanity - not hard, but not gentle, either. “I’ll show you a model’s life. Now get it in gear, or we’ll leave you here.”

“_We’ll leave you here _,” Niall mimics, flicking off the light. He shoves Willie against the doorframe on the way out. “Let’s go!”

They go out, as they do when Niall’s around - clubbing it tonight, since Mully’s with, and he hasn’t been with in ages. 

“Shots!” Mully’s yells into Niall’s ear, when they’re a few pints in and feeling loose.

“Go on then,” Niall yells back. “I’m not your fecking barmaid.” But Mully’s all lit up, smile wide on his face as he wiggles his hips to the music, and Niall orders the shots, because Mully might be a terrible dancer but he’s a good friend.

“Sláinte,” Mully says, holding his glass up for everyone to clink. Niall tips his shot glass up and doesn’t think anything of it. The liquid burns down his throat, a good golden glow that fades as soon as he lowers the glass and sees Mully staring at him, eyes fixed on the spot low on his neck, just past the collar of his shirt. Mully doesn’t say anything, for a fucking wonder; suppose he’s been through enough of these cycles at this point, there’s nothing for him to say. But his face gets immeasurably gentler as he peels the empty glass from Niall’s hand. “I’ll get next round,” he says, and disappears into the crowd.

There are a few more rounds of shots after that, enough to put Niall solidly over the line of Tipsy and into the county of Fully Hammered, and when Willie pulls him onto the dance floor to wingman for him, he goes with it.

He dances until Willie gets pulled away by someone else, until the itch underneath his skin climbs up a few layers and lingers just below the surface - there, where almost anyone could scratch it if they got too close. And then everyone’s too close, all of a sudden. He’s surrounded by bodies, and breathing, and the club lights splitting the air like a headache. It’s too much; fight or flight rears up in him, a confusion of impulses muddled by vodka.

Midnight finds Niall standing in front of another mirror; the club loo, this time, walls tipping slightly around him like he’s underwater. He’s gasping a little, like he might actually be - except he’s dry, and he’s got lungs, so he can’t be drowning. He tilts his head back against the cold tile wall and scrapes in a breath, the itch creeping so far out of him that it’s almost separate, a living thing. And then he slides his phone of his back pocket, and texts Bressie.

_ u up? _ he types, and ignores the way his fingers shake on his phone screen. It’s not that late, but Bressie’s not a night owl by any stretch - so it’s late enough, there’s a risk he won’t answer. There’s a risk he will answer, too, but Niall’s resigned to that risk. Aligned to it, even.

_ i am now, _ Bressie sends back. And then, like he can tell the state that Niall’s in, _ coming over? _and Niall’s walking out of the jacks faster than he thought he could, between the undulating world and his shaking legs.

He’s smart enough to find Mully before he leaves. “I’m off,” he says, squeezing him on the shoulder.

Mully winks at him, and Niall sideswipes the shot at his dick just in time, before Mully’s hand can connect. “I won’t wait up, then.”

“Please. You’re three sheets to the wind, they’ll find you sleeping under the table in another hour.”

Mully laughs and hugs him. “Be good,” he says, quiet enough that Niall can pretend to ignore him. So that’s what he does: laughs, and ignores him, and walks out the club doors.

He sobers up a little on the drive over, which is good in some ways but makes the buzzing under his skin sharp and almost unbearable, draws him tight over his own bones until it feels like he might rupture from the force of it. London’s a familiar smear of lights and darkness through the window of the car, and the glass is blessedly cold against his face. 

If he had to count the number of times he’s done this — _ they’ve _ done this — over the past year, he’d run out of fingers and toes to count on. It was always something simmering between them that Bressie kept tamped down when Niall was younger and dumber, back when their friendship was open for public consumption - god he was stupid then, not knowing what he wanted, or how to begin to ask for it. But after everything: tour over, Niall single again - both Niall’s single again - well. The pot boiled over, so to speak. And it’s easy, no strings, and Bressie’s got a way of knowing what Niall needs, getting it out of him with his hands and mouth like he can read it off Niall’s body so he doesn’t have to put words to it himself, that big list of _ Things Niall Needs_. Like fingers, stroking him open. Like a hand, tight at the base of his dick, squeezing hard to keep him on the right side of the edge. Like Niall being able to leave, after, and feel like he left something there but is also completely intact.

The car slows and lurches over to the side of the road, bringing Niall out of his thoughts. “We’re here,” the driver says, and Niall tips him and slips out of the car, and makes his way to Bressie’s door.

Bressie’s waiting just inside, looking soft and rumpled like he’s been recently asleep. He’s got a pair of pajama bottoms low on his hips and is otherwise bare, miles of skin just out of reach. “Hey,” he rumbles, letting Niall into the house, and the low pitch of his voice coils in the bottom of Niall’s stomach.

“Hey, yourself.” Niall toes his shoes off; he’s drunk but no savage, and though he wants Bressie, down to the ends of his fingertips, thinks he might shake apart under the desperate edge of it, he needs some time to chill the fuck out before Bressie susses all of that out of him. It’s not the way of it. So he toes his shoes off and lines them up on the rug inside the door, takes his time straightening back up. He’s got to steady himself against the wall on the way up, but he smells like a club already and there’s no hiding where he’s been, or that he’s drunk, or what he showed up here to get, which is - which is something, sucked or fucked or whatever Bressie will give him.

“Plastered, then?” Bressie asks, but he’s smiling. He’s a foot away, at least, but Niall thinks he can feel the heat coming off of him.

“Some.” Niall shifts a little and smiles back. They’re still in the entryway, for whatever reason, like they both want to delay the inevitable. “Could be worse.”

Bressie chuckles, because they’ve both been worse, and turns to walk down the hall. He’s so broad his shoulders take up almost the whole hallway, and it makes the coil in Niall’s stomach wind even tighter. “Come on then, let’s get you sorted.”

For a second, Niall can’t move, pinned in place by Bressie’s casual words. _ Get you sorted _ could mean so many things, things he wants, and his brain almost explodes. But right now it must mean _ hydrate _ and _ act responsible _, because Bressie stops in the kitchen and fills a glass of water for Niall. The lights are out, and the refrigerator LED turns Bressie into a mass of stark shadow and relief, highlights him without lighting him and maybe this water is a good idea.

“Thanks.” Niall drains half the glass in one go, washing the tackiness from his mouth. 

Bressie rummages in a cabinet, comes up with a bottle of something. He holds it out, an offering. “Paracetamol?”

Niall sets the glass down on the counter and takes a step closer. “Not that drunk, Brez, Jesus.” Bressie quirks an eyebrow but stays put. He sets the bottle down on the counter and leans back against it, lets Niall runs his eyes all over him. “Christ,” Niall mutters, and stumbles forward a little. 

Bressie catches him before he actually falls, warms hands wrapping over Niall’s shoulders as Niall braces his hands against Bressie’s body. A laugh rumbles up through him, Niall can feel it shaking the muscles of Bressie’s stomach before he can even hear it. It puffs out of Bressie’s mouth, hot air shivering down over the side of Niall’s neck as Bressie pulls him closer, until there’s a critical handspan of centimeters between them. “Drunky. I’ve got you,” Bressie says, squeezing Niall’s shoulders before moving one of his hands to cup the back of Niall’s neck, while the other one starts sliding down Niall’s back.

Niall closes his eyes for a second. It feels so good, having Bressie’s big hands on his body; settles something dizzy, some ping-pong ball that’s been careening wildly through him, keeping him off-balance. “Yeah?” He takes a step closer. Bressie’s ribs expand, quick and sharp under Niall’s hands as Niall leans up and in, presses his mouth to the base of Bressie’s neck. “I know you do,” he mutters, licking the line of Bressie’s collar bone. “You’ve always got me, don’t you?” He means it, too — in every way, except the one where Niall gets to keep this in the morning.

“Fuck,” Bressie exhales, and gathers himself to move. Niall’s so ready for it, he can almost taste it; it’s happened like this before — the time they couldn’t make it out of the kitchen, Bressie bending him over the counter and getting his mouth on Niall’s arse until Niall sobbed and shot all over the cabinets. But Bressie loops his fingers around Niall’s wrist and tows him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, until they’re just in front of Bressie’s bedroom and it’s just — it’s — 

They don’t do this. Bedrooms. Brez offered once, near the beginning of everything, when Niall was kneeling on the floor between Bressie’s thighs, pillow under his knees and Brez’s dick in his hand. “Could take this to the bedroom,” Bressie’d said, panting and flushed, legs spread on the couch like the trunks of sapling trees. Niall stayed put, and sucked Bressie to within an inch of his life, and that was it. He’d never mentioned it again, and Niall was grateful for that.

Now they’re there, and Niall’s sucking in a breath, instead. He tries to be quiet about it, the way his heart is rabbiting around his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs, but it’s silent in the hallway and he’s sure Bressie hears him; his fingers tighten briefly on Niall’s wrist but don’t drop away, and then they’re through the door and in the bedroom proper.

“Take off your clothes,” Bressie says, low and simple. He hasn’t touched Niall yet, not properly, but the grit in his voice scours over Niall like sandpaper, and he’s suddenly, achingly hard.

“You do it, if you’re going to be so fucking bossy.” The hitch in his voice betrays him, but they both like a little attitude. It’s better that way, if Niall’s not giving in all the time.

“Oh?” Bressie just looks at him, long and steady, before he takes a step closer and gets his hands on the hem of Niall’s t-shirt, brushing his fingers against the bulge in Niall’s jeans as he goes. “Got a situation there?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Niall scrapes out. Bressie runs his knuckles over Niall’s dick again, before pressing his palm into it, firm. Niall pushes into it, despite himself. “Jesus, Brez,” he gasps, because he’s only fucking human. He can fight so long, but he needs — Bressie shifts his hands to get Niall’s shirt off, at last. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, again, and puts his hands low on Niall’s back, dragging him in and up to kiss him. Bressie’s mouth is an endless pool, and he kisses Niall slow and deep, all strong strokes of tongue moving deliberately against Niall’s own.

Niall tries to speed it up; there’s a rhythm they usually have, when this happens — it’s usually super-charged and urgent, bordering on frantic — but tonight Bressie’s having none of it. Niall tries to pick up the pace, and Bressie puts a hand on his jaw, digs his thumbs into the muscle there to improve the angle, sighs into Niall’s mouth. Niall feels himself melting into it, steadily, butter dissolving into water. Brez smooths a hand down his back, and Niall’s spine follows Bressie’s hand like a wave, arching and releasing.

“Shit,” Niall pants, when Bressie pulls his mouth away from Niall’s, at last, to skate his lips over Niall’s jaw and down his neck. Bressie takes his sweet time with Niall’s neck, finding that same spot from last week, suckling over it to make the bruise bloom again, bruise on bruise. “Ahh—” his voice leaves him, sharp in the quiet room, and Bressie slips his hand down the rest of the way, cupping Niall’s arse and rocking him up and onto Bressie’s thigh.

“You good?” Bressie asks, tensing his fingers to bring Niall into him again, and the friction between his dick and Bressie’s leg is so good, it shoots light up Niall’s spine. He grinds into it, close, finally close to getting what he needs, when Bressie pushes him away. “Hold on there, Nialler.” There’s a laugh buried somewhere in there.

“Hold on yourself.” Niall reaches out for Bressie’s dick, which is currently tenting his pajama pants, and from where he’s standing it looks like Bressie’s eyes actually roll back when Niall traces his finger over the swollen head, hot beneath the layer of flannel fabric. “Think you’re the one with a situation, mate.”

Bressie smacks his hand away. “What’s your rush?” he teases, but brings his hands to Niall’s belt and jerks him closer, hands working on the buckle. “You got somewhere else to be?”

“Left it already,” Niall says. It’s a little hard to talk when Bressie’s peeling his jeans down his legs so the cool bedroom air slinks over his overheated skin. “Just wanted to be with you.” It comes out more honest than he wants it to, hangs suspended in the air like a neon flag.

Bressie just kneels to tug Niall’s jeans off the rest of the way, hands curling around one ankle then another, steadying Niall as he steps out of his jeans, and then his socks. He stays on the floor, running his hands up Niall’s calves to his knees. His finger hits the numb spot over the scar tissue on the left one, and then he runs his thumbnail just along the edge of it, and Niall shivers and his hips twitch forward, all on their own.

“Brez,” he croaks, and nothing has happened but he’s not sure how long he can stay standing like this, Bressie’s hot breath hitting his abdomen. 

“Yeah.” Bressie looks up at him for a moment, eyes dark in the darker room, expression unreadable. Then he slides his hands up to cup Niall’s arse over his boxer-briefs, and tilts his head down to nuzzle at Niall’s dick where it’s straining against the soft cotton, and Niall lets out a moan, low and shaky. Bressie tongues at him through the fabric, sucking at the spot just over the head, and Niall’s lost. The itch below his skin is liquefying, running through him, good and golden, and his knees start to go out.

Bressie surges up and gets an arm around Niall’s waist, and it’s not — not pretty, or suave, or whatever the fuck people have come to expect of him, not chilled out in the least — but he plasters himself to Bressie’s chest and this time when Bressie pulls him up to kiss him, the rhythm of Bressie’s tongue is exactly like the rhythm of his dick when he’s fucking Niall, and Niall can feel the thickness of Bressie’s dick pressed against his stomach, jerking forward in the same rhythm as his tongue like Bressie’s off his head from just this, a kiss and a grope, just as much as Niall is, and Niall’s suddenly about three seconds away from blowing his load in his pants like a teenager.

“Bed,” he gets out, and Bressie honest to god has mastered space and time travel in the five days since Niall’s seen him last, because Niall’s back is hitting the mattress so fast he’s pretty sure they skipped a few steps. 

“Howya,” Bessie says, looking down into Niall’s face. He’s up on his hands, but his lower half is pressed all along Niall’s body, so Niall can feel every inch of him. “Fancy meeting you in a place like this.”

“Moron.” Niall rolls his eyes, and pushes his hips up into Bressie’s thigh. “What are you waiting on, a formal invitation?”

“Dunno, bud.” Bressie backs off a little bit, but leaves his thigh in place, thank christ, and cracks out a yawn, big and the fakest thing Niall’s ever seen. “Feeling kind of tired, thanks to you.” He blinks down at Niall, slow and exaggerated, and this is the other part Niall loves, about what they do — it’s easy, and it’s them, and Bressie can make him laugh just as easy as he can make Niall lose his mind.

“You’re such a faker,” Niall says, and brings Bressie’s mouth down to his. They kiss, wet and heavy and deep, and Bressie nips his way down the other side of Niall’s neck to suck just above his collar bone, and the tight suck of his mouth rockets down to Niall’s dick, ratchets his hard-on up another level. “Seriously, you and the symmetry,” he gasps, because someone’s got to tell Brez when he’s being ridiculous.

“Whatever,” Bressie mutters, and moves his way down. “You’re the one who likes to match.”

Niall’s retort dies a quick death in his throat, when Bressie sucks his way down his stomach to the edge of Niall’s pants. Bressie hooks his thumbs under the elastic, and pulls them down Niall’s thighs, slow and easy, like he’s getting a strip-tease. Like he’s giving himself a strip-tease. Whatever. Niall’s dick springs out and slaps against his stomach, because he’s actually that hard, and Bressie’s right up on it before he can even catch his breath, kissing up his length and wrapping his lips around the head, wet and sloppy.

Niall loses track of himself about a minute in. He knows what’s happening - his fingers clamping tight on Brez’s shoulders, winding in the sheets. Sounds breaking out of him, like a real-life porno; it’s embarrassing, sometimes, but Bressie likes to hear it. Bressie’s drooling so much down his shaft that it pools and leaks past his balls, and when Bressie spreads Niall’s thighs wide, wider, and runs his fingers down the insides of Niall’s legs, Niall thrusts up into Bressie’s mouth hard enough that even Bressie has to pull back.

“Fuck, fuck, sorry.” Niall says, and he means it.

Bressie laughs against the inside of Niall’s thigh and keeps his hand working over Niall’s dick, tight strokes that fly over the spit-slick skin. His other hand sneaks between Niall’s legs, rolling his balls for a few seconds, before shifting to the area behind. He slips his mouth back over Niall and presses a finger there, firm and steady against Niall’s perineum, and Niall arches and groans. “Do it,” he says, and his own voice is raw and strung-out sounding. “Shit, just do it.”

Bressie takes him in deeper, somehow, and the suction is so tight, and he keeps pressing his thumb against that spot, and swirls his index finger further back and down, tracing the edge of Niall’s rim. There’s no slick, just Bressie’s spit trickling down Niall’s crack, which isn’t enough for much but Niall moans and pushes into Bressie’s hand, into Bressie’s mouth, and Bressie eases the tip of a finger into Niall’s arse and it’s too much.

“I’m gonna —” Niall gets out, a two second warning before he’s coming, over Bressie’s mouth and onto his own stomach, a long hot pulse of white heat that empties him, washes him away.

“It lives,” Bressise says, a minute later, when Niall can open his eyes again. Bressie’s crawled up to bracket his knees on either side of Niall’s stomach, and Niall can see where the bottom of his chin is wet and red; his mouth is swollen and used-looking, and it makes the bottom of Niall’s stomach swoop out.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls Bressie down for a kiss, salty and thick with his own taste. He runs his hands down Bressie’s back; at this angle, Bressie’s too tall to get any friction, but Niall wants to keep him like this. He pushes against the edge of Bressie’s pajama bottoms, and Bressie gets the message, sitting up to push them down enough to be effective. “I want to see you.”

“Yeah? You like to watch?” Bressie asks, getting a hand on himself and starting to jerk it, slow at first. His voice is shot and that’s — that’s something. No lovebite, maybe, but something Bressie will carry around for a day, for anyone to hear. 

“You know I do. Like you like this.” Niall slides his hand through his own mess and adds his fingers to Bressie’s. “Like you over me.” Bressie groans and it’s hardly any time before he gets that wild look in his eye and throws his head back, shouting and striping up Niall’s chest and neck. 

“Jaysus,” Bressie says, accent more thick like it always gets afterwards. His chest is heaving, still, breath wracking in and out of him like he’s just sprinted a thousand meters.

“Mary and Joseph,” Niall agrees. 

Bressie winces. “Hopefully not.” He climbs off of Niall slowly, like he doesn’t entirely trust his legs. “Just gonna get a flannel. You want anything?”

“Nah.” Niall stretches his legs. His pants are still down around his calves, and he shimmies them higher, onto his thighs. “I’m good.” 

Bressie disappears into the en-suite, and the glow starts to fade from Niall’s limbs. Still, the idea of getting up and getting his clothes on and calling a car seems like so much work; but the reality is, he’s in Bressie’s bedroom, in Bressie’s bed, and he knows it could be a thing — him and Bressie, a real thing, where they have this all the time — because Bressie wouldn’t do this with him if it wasn’t what Bressie really wanted at the end of the road, which is why Niall never stays. It’s not as easy as Bressie wishing it into being, even if Niall wants it, too — he’s lost too many people already: crashed and burned, bridges incinerated, flames licking hot against his back. Bad endings make good songs but not much else, in Niall’s experience.

“Here,” Bressie says, and drops a wet flannel directly onto Niall’s face.

“Gobshite.” Niall grabs it anyway, and mops himself off as quick as he can with the cooling cloth, tossing it back at Bressie fast enough that Bressie just manages to dodge it.

Bressie laughs and falls on him, dead fucking weight across Niall’s chest and stomach.

“Gonna sleep like that?” Niall asks, wiggling to get his pants all the way up at last. He’s still a little damp but he’ll live, and his legs are about the only thing he can move at the moment, trapped like he is under Bressie's warm bulk. Everything’s a comfortable buzz. 

“You’re not that comfortable.” Bressie squirms on top of Niall like he’s settling in, though, yanking a pillow down from the top of the bed and wedging it under his head.

“Your feet are hanging off the mattress,” Niall points out.

“Everyone’s a critic. ‘S good for my circulation.” Bressie’s biting back a laugh, but Niall can feel him start to gather himself to move, and has to fight down an unexpected wave of panic.

Bressie rolls off of him but stays close, scooting around so they’re eye to eye. And this is when Niall should sit up and look away, and start rooting around for his clothes. But Bressie presses a hand to Niall’s chest, firm and steady, and says, “You should stay.” He’s not smiling at all, so there’s no way Niall can pass it off as a joke. “It’s just sleep, Niall. It doesn’t have to —”

“_It’s just sleep, Niall_,” Niall mutters back at him, thickening his accent like an idiot. He can make anything into a joke, if he tries hard enough. 

“Eejit.” Bressie flicks him in the forehead, and then soothes the spot with his thumb. “Now get up, so I can get the blankets over us.”

“Okay,” Niall says. “Just don’t drool on me.”

He’s hot enough without the blankets, and being next to Bressie under the sheets is like sleeping next to a pellet stove, if a pellet stove breathed and twitched and turned Niall inside out with its wide mouth and dick and — 

He’s fucked, is all. Bressie sighs in his sleep and shifts onto his side, and the two a.m. moon is mocking them both, flicking its fingers through the gaps in the blinds, beautiful and temporary. He stares at the ceiling until he falls asleep.


End file.
